by Laurie Soriano
The sound of the Sound is mild,
overwhelmed by the scree of seagulls
and children screaming in a sandy playground.
Parents set up chairs on the beach and gaze out
toward Long Island, or east
toward the raw Atlantic.
I never heard the Sound or saw it
those first eighteen years, even though it was always there;
never felt the great trees, breathed in the drug of Spring,
or even felt the ache of Autumn. There was
only the throbbing drama of a little house
on a road in the woods--a mass of children
building up like a bad headache, glints
of warm gold, all the good and bad human smells,
the awful never-ending swell of hope, the bruises
never given time to heal. And finally I was pushed
out, and looked down at my feet as they took one
step, and then the next, away.